Dog shit seems to be the theme, and one great share makes reading to the end, worthwhile.

Hello from the edge-land of a small town in Yorkshire where I am in a conversation which earlier contained the phrase, I'm fine, there's nothing wrong, ill befitting a person who has read Brave but about right for a breakfast-skipping, carb addict. I'll head to the shop later; along the street then along the next street and through the ginnel onto the main road all the while scanning for dog shit. It's impossible not to think about all the horrible things in the world when you have to move through the world with your head down. 

Otherwise, it's an interesting route. There's the woman I often pass on my walk, she uses a frame on wheels to get about and is hypervigilant because of the precarious state of her being upright while navigating all the do-do. Born between the wars, she has one of the movie star names common to her generation, she is Jean, and we must never let her own a gun. And the in-bloom buddleia, lousy with peacock and red admiral butterflies, and the red kites hovering above it all shitposting us with their clean air antics.

The Coop is the closest shop to my home that sells half-decent bread. It's new. It was a pub for a long time, before that it was another pub. It worked as a pub, the building itself I mean; neatly located between residential areas and the town centre. But it didn't thrive. There were rumours a councillor conducted his business from the pub rather than within the formal, more accountable setting of the community surgery. I don't know. I've lived here for twelve years, and my county representative has visited me once, his local equivalent, twice. Perhaps they've found a new pub to frequent. Perhaps they're worried about walking the streets because of the threat-level dog shit.

I told Charlie, the other participant in this morning's conversation, that I would be going out to buy bread. I asked him if he wanted anything fetching, he said, "not now that they've stopped selling doughnuts". The shop does sell doughnuts, but not the kind he likes, which is fine by me because he has a tendency to eat the lot over a day and that's too much fat and sugar for anyone. "Don't worry," he said, misinterpreting my frown. I asked him, "what if your doughnuts never come back?" He said, "there's always Sainsbury's." And there it was, my misplaced pique, dulled.

The practice of cleaning is powerful, Buddhists weave a compelling narrative of wellbeing and harmony around it. Dog owners should give it a try, or, only Buddhists can own dogs. I don't mind which, either way, the council notices threatening fines won't get the job done, but if she was twenty years younger, I suspect Jean might.

Big Thief has me excited. I love discovering new music, and Scot McClanahan recommends this singer and this song in an online interview I came across recently but can't now find. Sorry. Thanks for reading.